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My Writings

Memoirs

Our pond is small, compared to those on nearby country properties, maybe fifty feet in diameter. Basically it’s a frog pond only five feet deep in the middle, a third of its depth the primordial muck that incubates dragonfly nymph s and mosquito larvae. Twenty years ago, a back-hoe pulled...continue reading..

Last summer, hour after hour,
you milked the currants
from their slender stems
and stained your fingers red.
Some fell into your lap,
small round berries,
reflecting radiation
aimed hot, months before,
at the meteorite that
crashed with a silent thud,
into...continue reading..

Old sugar maples edge the road
with power lines parting branches,
and trunks baring scars of lost limbs,
victims of storms and chainsaws
that feared wind and black-outs.
The ‘b’ is silent, I tell the children.
“Cross it out. Don’t say the sound.”
They nod and ask, “What’s a limb?”...continue reading..

Beyond the kitchen window,
a western sky darkens to dusk.
My nose drips raw into
a sink of soapy water and
a day of dirty dishes.
Gloom settles on my shoulders
like a suffocating cloak,
a black hole swallowing light.
From the pond, out of sight,
I glimpse a blue...continue reading..